Soaking Wet on the Doorstep
by raptorsqquad
Summary: Set immediately after 'Lies of Omission', Lydia finds a rather dripping and broken Stiles on her doorstep.


The rain is pounding so heavily against every inch of the house that it takes a moment for Lydia to notice the knocking. Somehow it manages to match the rhythm of the raindrops, _knock knock knock,_ almost like the person behind it is lost in the fury of the storm. She's sitting on her bed, rubbing at her temples as the day take its toll on her head, sending pains jolting through her brain every few moments, in time with each worry that passes through. What is she going to do about Parrish, what is she going to do about the Dread doctors, what is she going to do about her friends. An endless list.

But the knocking. When she finally hears it, her first thought is to grab a knife. Terrible, that her life has become this. Not her grabbing her mom's secret stash of wine and two glasses, so she and Allison can sneak into the basement and drink away the day like a pair of grown ups, pretending through their words that they know what their doing. Those were the days.

Knocking again. The tempo has increased, become more urgent. Understandable, considering the weather. She briefly weighs up the chances of it being a murderer, or something worse. Then gives up on being sensible and pads her way across the landing, down the stairs, to the front door. Nobody else is home. The thought strikes her all of a sudden, and she's not sure why. Maybe some sort of foreboding but then she hears the voice on the other side: "Lydia?" Croaky, breathless but still unmistakable.

"Stiles, what the he-" she doesn't finish her sentence because by now she has opened the door and seen his face. And even though he is soaking all over, she can still somehow tell that he is crying. Something about the way his eyes have darkened, lost that sparkle she has come to rely upon so much. His shoulders are rising up and down, up and down, at a rapid rate. And she's seen this before, seen this wide-eyed panic and seen those trembling hands. _I can't just kiss him this time._ The thought slips through her head before she can stop it but she decides not to linger on it.

She steps aside, not needing to say anything. Stiles stumbles inside, bringing half the contents of a raincloud with him. He has enough insight to hesitate, looking down at his shoes which are now pooling a grey, muddy liquid into her carpets. But then Lydia shakes her head, gesturing to the kitchen. She wonders when they developed this secret language, and wonders if Stiles does the same with Malia. _Where the hell did that come from?_

He barrels into the kitchen, an out of control rollercoaster cart, and makes it halfway to the seats before his legs give out underneath him. She's there to catch him, guiding him to the floor. He sits, gasping desperately at air that his body somehow refuses to take in. This is worse than before, Lydia realises. Sitting beside him, she puts one firm hand on each of his shoulders, presses her forehead against his. "Hold your breath, Stiles," she commands, but the boy just sobs against her.

"I can't…" he whimpers, sounding so exhausted that Lydia feels like panicking as well. She saw this boy just two hours ago and he was nowhere near this state. A little off, sure, but what on earth has happened to bring him to this state?

She grips his shoulders tighter, then leans back, takes on of his hands and holds it up. "Count them," she says, hoping she sounds confident enough. She remembers how Stiles used to do this for months after the nogitsune fiasco, how he admitted to it one quiet evening in the library, fingers tucked around the edge of his book as if he was worried he might float away.

He looks up, and the fact that she has remembered seems to have brought him back slightly. He swallows, looking at his fingers and nodding slowly. "One…" he whispers, lip trembling.

"In french," Lydia interjects. "Next number in french."

"Deux…"

"Back to english."

"Three…Four…"

"Now in Polish." She remembers a long ago conversation with Stiles about his distant family roots, and she knows he can count to ten in Polish, and not much else.

"Pięć…" His upright fingers tumble down to clench against his palm and he lets out a low whistle, his forehead dropping against her shoulder. It's a little uncomfortable for Lydia; they haven't been this physically close since Stiles started dating Malia and she can't help but worry that this is some betrayal to her friend. _It's fine, we're barely even hugging._ She grits her teeth at the thought. _But you wish it was more, right?_

Not the time. She focuses back on Stiles as he pulls himself vaguely upright, pushing his sodden hair from his face. She knows he's calming, because he now looks a little self-conscious, a little embarrassed. So she smiles, hoping that soothes his concerns. But she can't smile for long, not when she's so damn worried about this idiot kid in front of her. "What the hell happened, Stiles?" she asked, placing one hand on his leg. She remembers when this action would cause a mental meltdown for him, but now he just covers it with his own, resting back against the nearest kitchen cupboard.

"I have to tell you something…and you're probably going to hate me for it…Scott found out and he hates me and now I need you to hear it from me, not anybody else…" Those last words have a bitter edge to them and Lydia guesses that whatever Scott found out, he didn't find out by Stiles' choice.

Her heart is beating a little faster against her chest but she forces herself to ignore it. Be strong, for Stiles. That's what she's always done, right? "Tell me," she says quietly, moving to sit beside him. She doesn't want him to have to face her head on, knows he'll find that even more anxiety-inducing.

Stiles draws in a big breath, draws his legs up to his chest and loops his arms around them. A position of safety, her psychology textbook would tell her. Then he begins to talk, begins to explain. Rambling at first but as he gets himself in order, the story begins to flow, from one terrible event to another. He explains what happens with Donovan, but doesn't pause, doesn't let her speak yet. He needs to get out his reasons for why he didn't tell anyone, and she respects that. He reaches the part where Scott confronts him and his voice begins to break a little, so she takes his hand again. Squeezes it gently, which seems to give him the energy to reach the end. Then he stops talking, looks to her, and she realises she's meant to react now.

Trouble is that she doesn't know how to react. It's bad, she knows that. But it's also not the worst. Stiles didn't come at this boy with a knife and stab him deliberately. He defended himself, and somehow things went wrong. Of course they did, he's Stiles bloody Stilinski. And he was scared, petrified of what he had done. So he kept it to himself, and at least she knows why he's been off, why his shoulder has been hurting. She thinks back to bringing back Peter, to all the bloodshed they've been a part of, however inadvertently. She thinks back to Allison, how she tried so hard to keep her away and how she still died anyway. It's not the same as what happened here, but somehow it gives her the capacity to understand.

Something is niggling at her, but she's not sure what it is yet. So she pushes it to one side for the moment, and turns to the boy still waiting desperately for her reaction.

"Stiles…" she begins, her voice worn like a cliff face, "You're not a bad person. You're just…" she trails off, thinking of the right word. She settles on it a moment later: "You're just an idiot."

He snorts slightly, a snort of surprise. "An idiot?" he echoes, "Lydia…I think that this is a little more than that…I _killed_ Donovan."

Lydia stands up, pacing one lap of the kitchen while one finger twirls a curl of hair deftly around it. "You didn't kill him, though. I mean, you did… but, you didn't."

"You're meant to be the articulate one, Lyds…"

Does he have to use that nickname? It's certainly not helping her think. She does another pace of the kitchen to walk it off. "I mean, you didn't plan to murder him. And I mean you really didn't plan to murder him, not even in that split second, right? You say you pulled out that pin to pull down the scaffolding?" Stiles nods, unusually mute. He's hanging off her every word, desperate for his retribution. "Well, tell me- when you pulled out that pin, were you thinking: 'this is going to kill him' or were you thinking 'I need to get him away from me?'"

He bites his lip. "It all happened so fast…" he whispers. "I don't think I was thinking anything…"

Lydia clicks her fingers, points triumphantly at him. "Exactly. You didn't plan to kill him. It was an awful accident, you were scared. You did what anyone would do."

Stiles stands as well, which is a good sign, even if he is a little unsteady on his feet. Trails a line of mud over to meet her in the middle of the kitchen, frowning. "I was happy, Lydia. He was dead, and I thought it was good."

"He was going to kill your father, Stiles. He was going to hurt you. You're human, of course you thought that."

Stiles looks at her in wonder, as if he's seeing her in a whole new light. She should be used to that look now, he seems to give it to her once a day as if he's discovering something new and incredible about her all the time. But it still gives her a tingling feeling right on the base of her spine, like he's slowly paralysing her. Then he smiles, barely. Like a ghost lingering in the corner of his chapped lips.

It disappears a second later, though. "He hates me, Lydia. He's…he's scared of me." The words sound cracked, hollow. A trail of broken eggshells.

Lydia doesn't know how to address that one. Stiles and Scott have a friendship that nobody can possibly begin to understand, or intrude upon. They have an intricate clockwork of traditions and feelings and history but even they are vulnerable to rust, to wear and tear. The problem in this set up is that nobody will be able to fix it. Like owning an incredibly valuable and detailed antique clock, rare beyond belief. It's amazing when you have it, but near impossible to fix unless you do it yourself, use your years of knowledge to bring the pieces back into harmony.

She guides him to a nearby stool, hunts around in the fridge until she finds that weird grape juice he loves to drink, especially when they're trying to crack a problem. Once she's poured him a glass and placed it beside his still slightly trembling hand, she sits down next to him.

"Give him time, it's a shock to him," she says, though the words don't sound quite right. She knows Scott is righteous perhaps to a fault, but she can't understand why he has shunned Stiles in one fell swoop. He's his friend, no his brother.

Stiles drains the glass of grape juice, stares in the distance. "Lydia…" he begins, and his voice is a little dazed. "I need to tell my father…I don't even know where to begin."

She rests her cheek against his shoulder in an automatic movement. Her relationship has become so indescribable, she just rolls with it these days. He tends to do the same. The pair of them dancing some weird waltz along the border of acceptable behaviour. "You told me. Pretty well. There was a time you would have stumbled over at least half of the words…that time you only did about…ten percent?"

"I'd go for more like fifteen, but I get your point."

Lydia sighs, but it's with a smile. Sass is his shield, but at least he's got strength to hold it up again. She reaches around him and digs in her handbag, pulling out a notepad and a pencil from the depths. She hands it across to him. "Write it down."

"What?"

"Write down what you're going to say, make it clear in your mind. It will help."

Stiles looks dubious but then Lydia gives him that look that means arguing isn't actually an option. So he takes the pen, adjusts his hold and drags the notepad to sit in front of him. Then he begins to write, slowly at first, dithering over every other word. Then he picks up pace, his writing becoming scrawled as if they can't quite keep up with his desperate need to get the words out of his head. To pull the heavy weight off his shoulders before his back finally breaks.

After five minutes of silent writing, Lydia gets up. She moves to check her phone, narrows her eyes at the missed calls from Scott, then pockets it and busies herself with emptying the dishwasher. She needs to do something productive, or she'll end up just gawping at Stiles and he doesn't need that.

Halfway through, pen hits marble countertop and she turns to see Stiles folding the page he's ripped from her notepad, before stowing it in his pocket. "All done," he murmurs. He shifts his weight from one foot to the next, his eyes drifting to the door but then back to her. He knows he needs to go, but he can't. Lydia can read him like an open book. He opened himself up to her and she greedily skimmed through the pages and drank in all his funny little ways. She just hadn't been quick enough to find the right way to let herself into his heart, before he had carefully closed the book and moved on.

"You should go," she says, to bring both herself and Stiles out of his reverie. "Now, before you get too nervous and start over-thinking it."

He swallows. Lydia closes the gap, squeezes his hands gently. "He is your dad, and he will understand. He loves you, no matter what. Besides, he's a cop. He's seen far worse."

That seems to placate him slightly. He nods, then leans down a presses a kiss to her cheek. It's brief and by the time he's leaned away, it's clear he's clocked what he's just done, and how it's a step over that invisible boundary of theirs. He blinks rapidly, then smiles weakly. The smile begs her to ignore it. "Thank you, Lydia. You really are the best." The words sound a little faint, like that kiss has teleported her into the room across. But she forces herself to act normal, for his sake at least.

"It was nothing." She leads him to the door, opens it and smiles when she sees that the rain is easing off. "See? That's a good sign." One more squeeze of his hand, like she's some sort of addict for his soft palms. Then she lets him go.

As she's watching him tramp to the car, her phone goes off. She pulls it out, sighs at Scott's name. Putting it to ear and turning back into the quiet of her house, she answers it: "Sorry Scott, I was busy…"

He ploughs right through. "Lydia, something's happened. Stiles, he…."

She interrupts his interruption: "…I know, I've spoken to him, listen…"

He talks over the top of her, desperate to get them out before they shatter his heart beyond repair. She doesn't catch all the words, but some stick out to her: "he hit him with a wrench. Over and over, on the head."

"What? No he didn't."

"Lydia, I'm sorry, I know you're close, but he did. Theo told me."

Lydia's heart races, picking up speed. She knows there's no chance Stiles would lie to her, she trusts him absolutely. She thinks… _no!_ She does. No argument. Besides, Stiles was a mess and now she understands why he was such a mess. Because he didn't understand why Scott was so angry at him for something he had done in self-defence, something that had happened by accident. Scott's voice fades away in her ear and the phone drops to the floor as she turns, rushing for the door. "STILES!" she yells, but it's too late. He's gone. Into the world where, somewhere, Theo is weaving a web of lies for Stiles to walk right into.


End file.
